


Carefully Crafted Triple Negatives

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: The SpongeBob Musical - Various/Anthony & Coulton/Jarrow
Genre: M/M, accidentally dating, ace spongebob, and this is mine apparently so here you go, listen everything is on fire chase your bliss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: "So, whaddya say? Can you help me?""Sponge," Squidward pushes himself up into a proper seated position, and then rests his back against the headboard, "stop beating around the kelp patch. What do you want?"SpongeBob falters, mouth opening confidently, then closing meekly as he shrinks in on himself. "I don't want to be alone."-In which one night becomes many, and Squidward accidentally finds himself settling.
Relationships: SpongeBob SquarePants/Squidward Tentacles
Comments: 10
Kudos: 114





	Carefully Crafted Triple Negatives

**Author's Note:**

> There is no cringe only chasing your bliss

Given the day’s events - the buildup, the non-eruption, his very real and definitely not a hallucinative experience with a chorus line - Squidward’s night is going to go one of two vastly different ways. Endless introspection and despair spirals with a strong likelihood trending towards an unhealthy amount of time sitting in his bathtub with a carton of ice cream, or his body is going to manage to sedate itself in order to avoid his own personal, emotional eruption from destroying his home.

It, of course, somehow does neither. Or rather it does a bit of both. He sleeps, dreamless and still, until he isn’t, jolted awake by his blinds banging against the windowsill after a stiff current. A stiff current he most certainly did not invite inside; maintaining an ideal flow for his skin regimen is nearly impossible when he introduces outside influences into his biome.

He pushes his eye mask to his forehead and his body upright to inspect his room - and meets someone's eyes and shrieks - they both do, and an embarrassing amount of time passes before he recognizes SpongeBob sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed.

“Sponge _ Bob _ !” He rucks the sheets up over himself. “We have  _ talked  _ about this! Countless times!”

Squidward braces himself, as he often has to do, to prepare his sensitive mental state for whatever inane reasoning or non-answer his neighbor plans to rattle off at hyper speed. Something in him definitely pops from the effort.

So when it isn't jellyfish this or Krabby Patties that, just a cowed little, "sorry Squidward," he swears his head deflates. "I have this problem, and I was hoping to talk to someone about it."

"Talk?" Squidward's eye twitches. "You wanted to  _ talk _ ? Sponge, it's," he reaches for his alarm, and nearly chucks it at his intruder's head, " _ one in the morning! _ Can't you take whatever nonsense this is to the starfish at this hour? Some of us need our beauty rest. I could have gotten a  _ wrinkle _ after the day I've had."

"Oh, Squidward, please?" He twists his body around and props his elbows on the foot of the bed, hands clasped, beseeching Squidward's non-existent better nature. "Pretty please? Gosh, you’re practically an expert at this sort of thing.”

“This doesn’t feel like it’s going to be very flattering.” (“I’m just not used to looking at the not-so-bright side.”) “... there it is.”

"So, whaddya say? Can you help me?"

"Sponge," Squidward pushes himself up into a proper seated position, and then rests his back against the headboard, "stop beating around the kelp patch. What do you  _ want _ ?"

SpongeBob falters, mouth opening confidently, then closing meekly as he shrinks in on himself. "I don't want to be alone."

Oh, well if he's going to pluck  _ that  _ particular chord at the most opportune moment. Leave it to SpongeBob to accidentally exploit his carefully kept secret anxieties. "Fine."

SpongeBob puffs up, practically vibrating out of his button down pajamas. "Really!"

"Don't make me regret this," Squidward warns, moments before SpongeBob rounds the bed, hops on, and latches onto his left arm like a leech. "Too late." He turns to SpongeBob slowly, hoping maybe he'll detach before Squidward confronts the situation. He doesn't. "You can't tell me you honestly believe this is what I meant."

"You didn't  _ not  _ mean it," is all he says. This is far from unusual, but there's a cold disquiet in place of Sponge's fluttery lashes and toothy grin. And there's the yammering; he's always going on about something pointless. Sponge's fingers tighten a little, and then settle. "Squidward, what if today really was the best day ever?"

"What."

"Like, the  _ best _ best day ever," SpongeBob clarifies, sort of. He tugs on Squidward's arm harder with every bullet point. "The whole town was saved. Everyone banded together. Gosh, even _ you _ started singing along. The evidence is impossible to ignore."

"I-I was swept up in the _ fervor _ ," Squidward insists. "Call it what it is, delirium. That's all."

"Sure," SpongeBob laughs. "But you gotta admit, it was some of the best delirium ever."

Squidward rolls his eyes, and attempts to shake his arm free, but SpongeBob's hold tightens in response. "Stop that, you're not taking  _ root.  _ Did it really warrant waking me up in the middle of the night to talk about your ridiculous optimism?"

"I'm just so  _ worried _ , Squidward." SpongeBob drops his forehead onto the side of Squidward's upper arm. "If that was the best day ever.  _ Ever  _ ever, then what're all the rest of the days? Like tomorrow? And tomorrow, and tomorrow..."

This is a very… SpongeBob problem to have. But why is this suddenly also Squidward's problem to solve? Because he's a realist? And honestly, Squidward was banking on a bit more schadenfreude once reality finally hit his head-in-the-clouds neighbor. He shouldn't have to feel  _ bad  _ for the guy; it's not his fault Sponge is like this.

He maybe - possibly - it's arguable that Squidward's arm moving to rest against SpongeBob's back and hold his elbow looks like a hug to the untrained eye. The less informed might say it feels like one too; SpongeBob certainly misinterprets it as permission to latch onto Squidward's torso.

It's purely self-preservation. With his aforementioned skin routine already in jeopardy he doesn't need SpongeBob's clumsy mitts causing any unsightly bruising.

Still, he doesn't want to be at this all night. "There'll be more best days," he says quietly, puffing out his chest when SpongeBob's arms tighten with little anxious pulses. "C'mon, Sponge, ninety-five percent of the day was absolutely terrible. If that's your scale for the true best day ever then you can top that with a trip to the grocers."

"Oho," Sponge is gloating, and digging his chin into Squidward's stomach as if he's earned the right. "My song was a whole five percent?"

"Your song was point one percent at  _ most _ ," Squidward snits (SpongeBob seems to think he's just  _ teasing _ but he's deadly… well, he's  _ serious _ ), "and the rest was a bunch of punch drunk  _ simpletons _ caught up in the distraction from certain doom."

" _ Un _ certain doom," SpongeBob grins, poking a finger into Squidward's chest. He curls it back into a loose fist and taps it against Squidward's ribs. "Thanks Squidward."

"For  _ what _ ."

"For making me feel better," he sing-songs, and gives Squidward's midsection another unwelcome squeeze. His chest still feels tight after SpongeBob stops invading his personal bubble.

“Great, wonderful. Now can you please leave so I can get back to sleep?”

“Oh, sure,” Spongebob hesitates to get up off the bed. Squidward waits him out, even when watching him fidget with the ends of his sleeves tugs at that same not-shadenfreude feeling in his ribs. “Well, guess I’ll just… leave the way I came in. See you tomorrow, Squidward.”

He holds his breath, watching SpongeBob’s dejected shuffle, until something in his temple feels like it snaps. “What! What’s wrong  _ now _ !” SpongeBob twists back round, startled but, what, hopeful? For what? “Did you expect me to offer to host a slumber party!”

“Well,” he fidgets again, “I didn’t  _ not _ -”

“Sponge _ Bob _ .  _ Why  _ did you think I’d want to - “  _ ( _ “ _ I don’t want to be alone.”)  _ “ - tartar sauce.” He drops his head into his hands, muttering to himself. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”

So he doesn’t. Not right away. Not when it’s going to sound like… like the truth. Barnacles. He’s lost control of his life.

“So…”

“Would you - just - gah, if you’re going to stay at least shut the window!”

"Aye aye, sleepover captain!" He's jubilant, the equal opposite of Squidward's dismay. SpongeBob scrambles to the window, slams it shut, and launches himself back onto Squidward's bed before he cobbles his sensibilities back together enough to respond.

"Absolutely  _ not _ ," he bundles the ends of the sheets to his chest, but SpongeBob uses the opportunity to worm his way underneath. "It's a sleep _ over _ , as in, you sleep  _ over there _ ," he gestures vaguely, "or more preferably downstairs on the couch."

SpongeBob's head pops up from under the covers and lands on one of Squidward's pillows. "Aw, you won't even know I'm here." ("Somehow I doubt that.") He laughs. It wasn't a  _ joke _ . He  _ knows _ SpongeBob snores. He can hear it from his house. Sponge closes his eyes and sinks into his pilfered pillow. "G'night, Squidward."

Squidward grumbles in response, neither affirming or opposing his claim. He straightens out the sheets to avoid wrinkling them any more than he already has and lies down. It's going to be a sleepless night staring at his ceiling, and he needs to prepare.

\---

He wakes up, which is shocking enough, but he also does it alone. The only evidence to suggest he wasn’t having some sort of nightmare is a very SpongeBob shaped rumple in his sheets. He snatches his hand away from the border of Spongebob Crater and wipes the matter from his eyes.

He takes a deep breath and recoils when his room smells like  _ work _ . After a bit of head shaking he sits up and concludes he's not having an untimely stroke;  _ someone _ already prone to casual breaking and entering seems to be pushing the envelope in his kitchen. Squidward trades his eye mask for his dressing gown, but foregoes his usual morning routine in favor of assessing just how much damage one “simple sponge” can do before the sun has finished rising.

SpongeBob is right where Squidward prayed he wouldn't be; same light blue pajamas, sleep mussed hair,  _ his bare feet slapping around Squidward's kitchen. _ “What are you doing.”

He gasps, “good morning, Squidward!” SpongeBob beams at him from in front of the stove, where he’s decided to dirty every pan Squidward owns, and maybe some he's never seen before? Did he go home first? "I wanted to thank you, so I thought I'd make you some breakfast in bed, but, well, now it can be breakfast in here!"

Squidward squints at the spread. "Eggs, toast, and… bacon."

"And pancakes from scratch," he sing-songs. All flippable foods, the SpongeBob specialty. (Or possibly all he eats, which, why is Squidward wasting time on fantasies of something happening to SpongeBob when  _ SpongeBob _ happens to SpongeBob daily.) "It'll be just a bit longer, Squidward. In the meantime I figured out how to use your fancy coffee bean thing -" ("... The grinder?") "-and it should be ready riiiiiight," he's nearly singing with how long he drags it out until Squidward's coffee maker bings, "now!"

“You made coffee.”

“I thought you might like some,” he says. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you up this early.” SpongeBob stutters to a stop, and blinks. “Why, Squidward, I don’t think I’ve  _ ever  _ seen you up this early.”

Squidward uses his thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes. “Just how early is it, SpongeBob?”

“Oh,” he hums, “I dunno. I got up at six. I guess it’s gotta be close to six-thirty by now.”

If Squidward already had his coffee he would’ve spit it out. “Six- _ thirty _ !?” he sputters, “I don’t even wake up this early for  _ work _ !”

“I’m sorry, Squidward. I tried to be as quiet as possible. I guess I got too enthusiastic.” He takes a mug from the little hanger under his cabinets and pours a fresh cup. “Here. I hope it’s as good as ever.”

SpongeBob presents him with the cup of black coffee, and although Squidward is eyeing his plant for a scapegoat he gives it a teeny-tiny little sip. It's… passable. It's not like he's having to filter the grounds through his teeth. He's endured worse for the sake of caffeine.

SpongeBob always struck him as an instant coffee sort of person… well, no that's not right. SpongeBob strikes him as the sort to feel jittery after a half cup of juice.

“Do you  _ love  _ it?”

Squidward mumbles around another tentative sip. “I’ll drink it.”

“I’ll take it!” SpongeBob grins. "Now, do you want syrup on your pancakes? Or maybe fruit? Oh! I could add some chocolate chips," he waggles his brow suggestively, and somehow also manages to flip the eggs without looking.

Squidward shakes off his sleepy daze and takes another drink of coffee. "Uh, Fruit."

And then there was fruit, carefully placed to make a lop-sided smiley face out of raspberries with a half strawberry for a nose. And a second, smaller plate with the eggs and bacon, also smiling up at him. He gives SpongeBob a scowl as he stabs into the eggs to break the yolks.

SpongeBob doesn't notice, or he chooses not to, because he's grinning ear to ear as he slides into the chair across from Squidward with his own smiling plates of food.

"Please don't start on the best day ever shtick until at least eight."

"AM?" ("PM.") SpongeBob laughs. "Oh, Squidward. I don't know if I'll be able to help it. It really feels like it just might be th-"

"Yeah yeah, but  _ not until eight. _ " He takes another drink of the not-so-wonderful coffee. "For the sake of my sanity I'm asking you to meet me a sixty-forth of the way there."

"I'll do my best," SpongeBob swears. "It can be part of my thank you. Even though you hate me you helped me feel better, and that means a whole lot. It takes a truly good person to help someone they actively dislike."

Well, he can't have _ that _ floating around town. Squidward covers his eyes with his hand to avoid the reaction to what he's about to admit. "I don't hate you."

SpongeBob gasps out a delighted, squeaky, "really!?" at such a high pitch Squidward's ears start ringing. "Oh gosh, Squidward. I don't know what to say."

"How about nothing," Squidward snaps. He rubs at his warming cheek. "And I still hate some of the things you do, like when you  _ break into my house _ . I have a doorbell, SpongeBob. Heck, I have a  _ door _ . You don't need to be sneaking in like a snail burglar coming to steal my priceless artworks - why are you making that face.”

That face, the stupid grin and the hands on his cheeks, only intensifies. “So next time I come to visit you want me to knock?”

“Who said there was a next time?”

“You did,” SpongeBob giggles. “You implied it.”

“I - you just - gah! There is no _next time_ , understand? This was a freak occurrence after a long day of nonsense - _Stop. That._ _Smiling._ ” SpongeBob cuts off a big bite of his pancakes and shoves it in his mouth. So instead of smiling he’s… still smiling, but with his mouth full. “I said I don’t _hate_ you. That’s still a long way off from _liking_ you. I'm setting _boundaries_ , as in, _my house is off limits_."

“Okay, Squidward,” SpongeBob hums happily, "I'll try. But gosh, sometimes I'm just so excited about something I feel like I'll explode if I don't tell somebody."

"Well, I'd prefer it if that somebody wasn't  _ me _ ," Squidward insists. "I have to put up with you at work too much as it is. I'm very much looking forward to this once in a lifetime day off Mr Krabs has given us. I don't need you ruining it."

"Oh, that reminds me," SpongeBob clasps his hands together, "how would you like to volunteer to help clean up the town?"

"What."

"Well, the Mayor made an announcement," he pauses, "about holding a press conference, to propose a meeting style, aaaand," he shrugs, "I sort of dazed out a little after that, but I thought maybe I'd just see if I could round up some folks to start the cleanup today."

"Uh huh." Well, Squidward's not filling in any blanks. Let SpongeBob squirm awkwardly until he finally spits out his grand plan.

"And I know manual labor isn't necessarily your strong suit," ("What's  _ that _ supposed to mean exactly?") "but that's okay! You know, the volunteers are going to need refreshments, snacks,  _ entertainment _ ."

"... I'm listening."

“Well, you did a great job organizing the benefit concert in a hurry,” SpongeBob gushes.

“Uh huh, uh huh. Until I  _ didn’t _ .”

“Pssh,” SpongeBob waves away Squidward’s claim, “everyone knows seahorse radish is out of season. I know performing is a tough job, but that doesn’t mean you need to be unreasonable.”

“... Sure.”

“I think you’d do a great job, Squidward.” He reaches out and snatches Squidward’s hand as he’s reaching for a napkin. His thumb runs across Squidward’s knuckles. “Whaddya say?”

“What? Uh,” he shakes his hand free. “So, it’s a fundraiser.”

“More like a  _ fun _ -raiser,” SpongeBob giggles. “Just because it’s work it doesn’t mean it has to be boring. I want the volunteers to have a good time.”

"Fine." Squidward leans back in his chair, already formulating where he’ll slip in a short clarinet solo between some of the other B-list talent this town has to offer. “And when are we starting this cleanup?”

“Bright and early!” he exclaims. “The sooner the better. I told everyone I’d be in the town square at seven-thirty, but we could leave right now!”

Squidward groans, and slowly drops his head onto the table.

\---

Three days, too many hours, and one musical number later, the town is more or less the dump it always was. Sure, there's some finer details like the building missing half its roof and the street that is officially more pothole than actual road, but, again, same old dump it always was. Squidward hangs up his volunteer event organizer hat and puts on the old Krusty Krab uniform the following Monday.

(The true blessing, aside from showcasing his altruism to an undeserving audience, is his personal discovery. As in, someone discovered  _ him _ . The theatre, blown away with his performance, has hired him… to organize the summer showcase. He has his feet in the door; the side door. The one the stage hands and other non-performers use. But the constant availability of free tickets ensures he can watch exactly what kind of trainwreck he's dodged by not signing on with the hacks in this town.)

It's a shame SpongeBob won't survive his own excitement long enough to actually receive his promotion. If Squidward has to watch him vibrate across the room to stare out the window forlornly, only to spring back and appear busy for an unwilling audience of  _ one _ , well Squidward might need to duct tape Sponge to a chair to keep himself from doing something really heinous.

"SpongeBob," Squidward calls, but he's muttering about… straw wrappers? Efficiency? No, okay it's time to curb this before Squidward has to deal with the fallout. He grabs SpongeBob when he's on his way past the register over to the kitchen door. "SpongeBob!" He gives him a good shake. "This is maddening! We've been over this! Twice! Mr Krabs comes in _at opening._ You know this! You've worked here for years!"

"Oh," SpongeBob groans unhappily, "I know, Squidward. I do. But I'm just so  _ excited _ and  _ nervous _ and maybe a little gass-"

"Stop. It." SpongeBob clamps down on his lips. He starts shaking. "How about you start with breathing if you plan to survive until Mr Krabs can get here."

He takes two giant, gulping breaths, and his eyes roll back a bit. "Oh don't you  _ dare _ ." And then just as abruptly he's alright, more or less. A little dazed, which hopefully means he'll be quiet. "Are you done?"

SpongeBob nods, and latches his little leech hands around Squidward's wrists. He's clammy, still a little shaky, but breathing without sending himself into another bout of histrionics.

"Good, ah…" he flexes his fingers against the fabric of SpongeBob's sleeves, and they both slap their arms to their sides. "Good."

"Squid-"

"How's my two favorite employees?" Mr Krabs bursts through the front door, key in hand and a hearty laugh cutting the tension. "I'm sure you both know there's a big announcement today."

SpongeBob squeaks, "oooh I'm so excited!"

“The two a you really impressed me. Yer quick organization was quite the feat,” he points to Squidward, “and you my boy,” he comes up to SpongeBob and wraps an arm around his shoulders. SpongeBob bites his lip; it’s a complete failure. Smile’s still a mile wide. “You saved the city. I didn’t know you had it in ye.”

“Thanks, Mr Krabs,” SpongeBob swoons.

“A real show of leadership,” Mr Krabs assures him, and gives him a little friendly shake. “I’ve got a special promotion in the works. SpongeBob my boy, I’m making you my new kitchen manager, in charge of fry cooking and inventory,” SpongeBob squeals with delight, “and Squidward, I’m making you the front manager, since you’re so skilled with the customers. My two co-managers.”

Squidward’s brow twitches. “Does this come with any sort of raise?”

He laughs. “Of course not!”

Squidward sputters. “Mr Krabs! That’s just our old jobs!”

Mr Krabs bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding.” He releases SpongeBob and digs something out of his pocket; a shiny enamel pin with MANAGER in bright blue letters. “You’ve earned it, boy, now hold still.” He sticks the pin just above the left pocket of SpongeBob’s shirt. SpongeBob holds out his shirt, admiring the little embellishment. “I know you’ll make me proud.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” SpongeBob marvels.

“I know you will, boy.” He claps him on the back. “And now that I have a manager, I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

“What.”

“You’re in good hands, Squidward,” Mr Krabs says confidently. He leans in closer to the register. “And between you and me, I should’ve done this ages ago. Now I never have to come into work.” He barks out another peel of laughter as he sidles his way to the front door. He sends them off with a wave over his shoulder, “have a good day, boys!”

“Great,” Squidward sighs. He turns to SpongeBob, hoping his coming vent session will at least be heard if not matched. Instead he’s shuffling up to Squidward like he snapped his clarinet. “What’s with you.”

SpongeBob focuses on fidgeting with the straps of his suspenders rather than Squidward’s face. “Are you upset about not being co-managers, Squidward?”

“What? Why the heck would I want to be co-manager of  _ this  _ dump?”

Sponge glances up at him shyly. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”

“SpongeBob, when have I ever said something just to make you feel better?"

"A few nights ago."

"Well that's - I only - that was an outlier." He groans. "Sponge, I do not want to have 'Manager of the Krusty Krab' on my resume. Not now, not ever. The Krusty Krab is my humble beginning, not my tragic past, present, and future. Manager makes it look like I've settled. Understand?"

He nods, "yeah. Thanks Squidward. Sometimes I forget you're destined for greatness, because I'd rather get to work with you forever." He straightens his tie and does this odd little whole body shake before marching towards the kitchen. "Well, these patties aren't going to grill themselves!"

Squidward shakes his head. SpongeBob likes working with him. Of course he does. It's not like it's a  _ secret _ . He turns around at his station and leans on the window. "You'll have to hire somebody else to do that someday."

SpongeBob halts his morning preparations, spray and brush still hovering above the grill. "Me?" he squeaks. "I get to hire somebody?"

"What do you think a manager does?"

"Manages?"

"Well, yeah," Squidward huffs. "I guess if you want to speak  _ broadly _ ."

"Oh boy! I wonder if Patrick needs a job?"

"Loaded question," Squidward mutters under his breath. "I don't know if I'd call the starfish fry cook material, SpongeBob."

"I guess you're right," he crosses his arms, frowning. "I've got it!" He basically tosses the spray and brush across the room towards the counter and oh God - Squidward dodges when SpongeBob launches himself through the order window and into the register station. Heart still pounding, face still scowling, Squidward claims the other half of the little bench seat when SpongeBob pats it invitingly.

"Please never do that again."

But his plea is ignored, because the sponge is zeroed in on a mission. "You and me, Squidward. We're gonna write the best help wanted ad ever seen."

"We?"

"Well, yeah," SpongeBob giggles. "You're gonna work with the new hire too." ("... I suppose.") "That's the spirit! Now, what makes a good fry cook?"

"Cooking skills."

"Uh huh, uh huh, well I'm gonna write 'friendly' first," he says, as he scribbles onto a scrap piece of receipt paper. "And nice, and -"

"Give me  _ that _ ," he snatches up the note. "Niceness isn't  _ everything _ . You've gotta be willing to let this person actually  _ be the fry cook _ instead of just taking over because you think you do it better." Ignoring. He's ignoring SpongeBob's pitiful face. The pitiful face  _ does not  _ work on him. "You're a manager, SpongeBob. You have bigger fish to… fry. Look, that was a bad example…” SpongeBob launches himself at Squidward and bundles him into a hug. “why. Why this. What's wrong  _ now _ ."

SpongeBob gives Squidward's trapped arms another bone-crushing squeeze. "Everything's different now, isn't it Squidward."

"Yep, just like you wanted." He tries to placate SpongeBob; the only thing he can reach is his knee. He gives it a good squeeze, but SpongeBob only tightens his hug. Squidward sighs. "Sponge, I don't know if you've noticed but we work in  _ fast food _ . People don't come here because it's  _ good _ ."

"But it  _ is  _ good, Squidward. The best there is in all of Bikini Bottom."

"Don't remind me," he mutters. "And - and you're going to be training this person anyway! You're telling me you can't pass down your fry cook knowledge to anyone with half a brain?"

"You're right," he says. And thank Neptune he lets Squidward go. He gets this faraway look in his eyes. "I climbed a mountain. I saved the town. I can teach somebody willing, somebody as passionate as me ("Good luck finding that."), to make the perfect Krabby Patty." He puts a hand on Squidward's arm, sliding down towards his hand and taking it in his. "Thanks Squidward."

"Good, fine. Okay." He tugs his hand free. "Are you good now? No crying first day as  _ manager _ , alright?"

SpongeBob's cheeks pink up, but he nods. "And you’re right. I’m a manager now. So…" he walks his fingers over his own leg, over Squidward's, and onto the note, "what should I do?"

"Uh, hmm," he leans over to write, and it bumps their shoulders together  _ by accident _ . SpongeBob bumps him back on purpose, and Squidward growls at him. He doesn't take the hint. Fine. "How about you tell me  _ all  _ the things you think a good fry cook should be and I'll make it sound like an actual adult wrote it, starting with being a people person." He scribbles out all of SpongeBob's suggestions and writes his own. "No one writes  _ nice  _ on a job posting."

\---

Three days, and no bites. Squidward isn't surprised. He's worked here for years and probably wouldn't be qualified based on SpongeBob's detailed, borderline-obsessive description of his ideal new hire. Mr Krabs is unphased; actually he's giddy he isn't having to pay another person.

At first _ , at first _ , it's kind of nice. SpongeBob's too busy being the fry cook  _ and  _ completing his new duties to bother Squidward at the register. He flips through a magazine, double dips to log a couple hours working on the theatre schedule, and all the while SpongeBob is a blur in his peripheral.

Until he isn't.

"Squidward?"

"What, can't you see…" he sets down his magazine and gets a good, long look at the bags under SpongeBob's eyes. Ho boy. "Um, I mean… what."

"I know you're busy taking orders," SpongeBob says, "but could you make this one?"

He takes the ticket wordlessly, gaping at SpongeBob as he shuffles off to the back office. There's been one… no wait, there's been  _ zero  _ times he's worked the grill when SpongeBob is on site. That one time was a night terror. He still can't look at the condiment cart without shuddering.

So he makes a patty. There are new little posters SpongeBob's made detailing the precise way to slop everything together depending on the order. Cute. Functional. Idiot proof considering an idiot made them. He’d consider messing with them, a little friendly new manager prank, if SpongeBob didn’t look so haggard.

He drops off the food with a lackluster, “enjoy,” and gets back to the important things in life: not working. Too bad SpongeBob doesn’t understand the appeal.

After a suspiciously nap-length amount of time SpongeBob stumbles through the office door and over to the register. “Hey, Squidward,” he yawns, “we’re almost out of crude oil. Can you sign for the order when it gets here?”

“Uh,” Squidward watches SpongeBob amble towards the kitchen, “I think you mean canola oil.”

“Hmm?” SpongeBob blinks a few times, eyes going out of focus the longer he stares through the order window. He shakes his head. “Oh, did you need something, Squidward?”

“Oh boy.” He sighs. Why is  _ he  _ the one that keeps having to solve SpongeBob’s problems? “Sponge, if you’re gonna sneak away to take a nap you might want to actually  _ take  _ the nap.”

“Oh,” SpongeBob visibly wilts - towards the hot grill and Squidward nearly dives through the window to shove him upright - but he rights himself and starts wibbling, “I’m sorry, Squidward. I couldn’t sleep last night, and I thought maybe if I just took a teeny-tiny nap I could be more useful, but I felt so guilty I couldn’t do it! Mr Krabs believes in me, and I seriously thought about… about…  _ time theft. _ What am I gonna do?”

“At the rate you’re going, I’d say the answer is grill your face.” He sighs. “Sponge, just come up here.” His request is met with a blank stare. “Gah! Just, will you just switch places with me already!” He has to drag him bodily through the kitchen door and oh so gently shove him onto the little bench. “Just  _ sit  _ here. The restaurant closes in an hour. There's almost no chance you can disrupt my plans to leave the second I can just by sitting down.”

He’s almost made it to the sanctuary of the kitchen when SpongeBob whispers, “thanks, Squidward.”

He eyes SpongeBob critically. “Just keep yourself from needing the emergency room. I don’t need my  _ evening  _ ruined on top of my normal workday.”

\---

He wasn’t planning to make the walk home side by side with the sponge, but that one’s on SpongeBob. His scampering sprint outpaces Squidward’s brisk walk (chosen to avoid any unnecessary muscle strain), but today Squidward is the one doing the outpacing.

Squidward braces himself for the grating goodbye as he continues down the street and SpongeBob turns onto his sidewalk, but it never comes. He hears the thunk of something hitting metal, and a groan and the scuffling of hands and feet on sand, and finally the heavy open and shut of SpongeBob’s front door.

“Huh.” Maybe he’ll actually get some peace and quiet with SpongeBob, presumably, calling it an early night. Good thing too, because Squidward’s getting tired of covering for him.

The thing is, he had plans for the afternoon. They weren’t necessarily important plans, but they were important to him. He wasn’t going to mope about the various seating areas of his home, lamenting the lack of recognition for his talent, his artistic genius, or anything aside from being an adequate event planner and cashier. He was going to make something of the day, whatever small something it turned into didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t nothing.

Despite his best efforts Squidward finds his evening thoroughly ruined, not by his own demons, but by whatever strange codependency SpongeBob seems to be forcing on him. So he isn’t sleeping well. Join the club. It shouldn’t have Squidward jiggling his heels, waiting for a telltale laugh to penetrate the walls of his home.

He hardly found the will to properly enjoy his nightly soak in the tub. What a waste.

So when he hears a series of taps on his front door in the middle of the night he doesn’t catapult out of bed. He sort of meanders, drifting through his house until suddenly he’s right there, just as  _ someone  _ starts knocking again. Squidward opens the door before SpongeBob (Because it has to be him, who else would it be?) gets impatient and decides to start harassing his doorbell.

Maybe he should have seen this coming, but he wouldn’t have put ‘can’t sleep’ into the ‘definitely worth crying about’ category. He steps back a bit to keep any wayward fluids off his person.

“What’s eating you,” he deadpans. He’d get an answer even if he didn’t ask.

“Oh, Squidward,” he wibbles. “I know you said your house is off limits, and I tried really,  _ really  _ hard not to bother you,” he takes a break to sniff loudly, “but I tried going to bed right after work, and it just kept getting later and later -”

Squidward sighs, “just come in.”

After getting over the unexpected visit, and him accepting said visit, Squidward assumes SpongeBob just needs more of the same encouragement, or maybe another not-really-a-hug-but-close-enough-to-call-it-that to get him to stop blubbering. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t make a peep. Squidward follows him through the house and upstairs to his bedroom, and SpongeBob just climbs right into his bed without a word.

And what’s he supposed to do? Sleep on his own couch? Absolutely not. He shoos SpongeBob away from the middle and claims his side - they’re both his side it’s  _ his  _ bed - and he just… goes to sleep.

\---

This time when he wakes up, SpongeBob is still asleep. He’s snoring softly, and his nose is doing this little whistle each time he exhales.

It's one of those rare mornings where Squidward is up before his alarm. It's a prime opportunity to enjoy a bit of reading before work, but he just lies there, scowling at his impromptu bedmate while he continues taking advantage of Squidward's hospitality.

What exactly is he gaining from this show of charity? And how is it better than the peace and quiet he gets from sleeping alone?

His alarm beeps, and Squidward reaches back and smacks the snooze button. By the time he's turned back SpongeBob is stirring, contorting his body every which way as he stretches. He yawns, blinking up with confusion until he turns and sees Squidward staring - no wait he's not staring he's just  _ observing _ \- and he smiles.

"Good morning, Squidward," he whispers.

"You just jump right into it don't you?"

"Yep."

"And just what is so special about  _ my  _ bed, exactly?" He sits up properly to glare down at SpongeBob, who's still luxuriating in Squidward's high quality sheets. "You just barged right in and made yourself at home, no explanation, no simpleminded little complaints. My sheets aren't  _ that  _ nice, so what the heck is your problem?"

"Oh," he groans, throwing his arms over his face, "nothing makes  _ sense _ anymore, Squidward. Being manager was all I ever wanted in the  _ world _ , and now that I have it I should be  _ happy _ . Like, best day  _ ever _ happy, but it feels…"

"Wrong," Squidward guesses.

"It doesn't feel like  _ anything _ ." He throws his arms to his side, and pushes himself up on his elbows. "It should feel like, like  _ some _ thing _. _ "

"I don't know how you expect my empty life to fill in the blanks for you." He's hardly filling his own as it is. Squidward is a… blank. He's a blank, and none of the available options feel right enough to try. "Or why you can't just go to Patrick's instead of  _ here _ ."

"I tried that," he admits quietly while picking at a loose thread on Squidward's duvet. "I thought it would work, but…"

Squidward waits… for about three seconds. "Well?"

"I just… feel better here."

"Huh," Squidward droops back against the headboard. "We can't keep doing this, SpongeBob." ("Oh…") he stutters, "I-I mean… you can't keep coming over  _ after _ midnight. I have a routine."

"Does that mean before is okay?"

"Now I didn't  _ say _ that." But SpongeBob, true to form, doesn't listen. He barrels into Squidward's side for a hug. "This is hardly appropriate." SpongeBob just burrows deeper, and Squidward has no choice but to pat him on the back and hope this ends quickly. "I can’t wait to see how this comes back to bite me."

\---

So it becomes a  _ thing _ .

He doesn’t know what sort of  _ thing _ , but it certainly is one… whatever it is. Look, he’s not going to bring any unnecessary attention to it now that he’s put a stop to the visits in the middle of the night. And it’s not like it’s every night; it isn’t even  _ most  _ nights. Once, maybe twice a week SpongeBob complains about insomnia, and Squidward is… boring? Bland? He’s  _ something _ that helps him fall asleep.

That part isn’t too strange. SpongeBob is a high energy disaster. Anything less than mach five has to have a sedative effect.

He expected to hate this more. He expected to hate this, full stop. Something foreign is taking up residence in his chest, something that feels… fine. Unfamiliar, but fine. It's tolerable.

And it's not like they're  _ hanging out _ or anything. He hasn't suddenly developed a childish taste for TV or jellyfishing, and SpongeBob certainly hasn't grown a sense of culture.

But here's a prime example: SpongeBob is sprawled out on Squidward's living room couch with the TV at a low volume, just snoring away. And Squidward is set up with his painting supplies across the room. They're sharing a common space, but they're not _ conversing _ . SpongeBob isn't even conscious. He might as well be at home napping instead of interrupting the flow of Squidward's space.

There is something strangely calming about the experience. SpongeBob is in here, being quiet, which means he can't cause a ruckus outside. It's filled Squidward with an often fleeting surge of inspiration.

SpongeBob snorts, and Squidward braces himself for some unwanted company, but he only turns over and shoves his face into the back of the couch. Good, because Squidward's is very busy putting the finishing touches on… a painting with far too many yellow tones.

"Barnacles," he grumbles. And the cherry on top? Someone's pounding at his door. He stomps over, grumbling and groaning the whole way. "What! What could _ possibly _ be so important…" the starfish. Of course. "What could you possibly want?"

Patrick blinks at him, peering in over his shoulder. "Is SpongeBob here?"

"Who wants to know." ("Patrick.") "I - you - gah! Fine. It's fine," he takes a breath, " _ why _ ?"

"He didn't answer," Patrick drawls, "and we were gonna go jellyfishing. And since he's here all the time now -"

"He  _ isn't _ ," Squidward insists. He just… also happens to be here at this moment. "Stay here."

He slams the door and takes a moment to collect himself. This is definitely the part that's come back to bite him the hardest. Moment over, he crosses to the couch and glares down at his blissfully unaware houseguest. He shakes his shoulder once, twice, and finally tugs SpongeBob onto his back when he refuses to wake. A couple gentle slaps later, and he's blinking wide, innocent eyes up at Squidward.

"Hi," he stretches his back, settling in with a sigh.

"Yeah,  _ hi _ ," Squidward cuts himself short, this isn't a time for idle chitchat. He's not missing the opportunity to rid himself of company. "The starfish is here. Forget something?"

SpongeBob gasps, "jellyfishing! Ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmy _ gosh _ !" He rockets off the couch and over to Squidward's front door. He jams his feet into his boots and pulls a net from Squidward's coat closet. "Bye Squidward! Unless," he stops dead, "unless you'd like to come too?"

Squidward picks up the remote from the floor where SpongeBob dropped it and turns off the TV. "Not in your lifetime."

"Okay," SpongeBob smiles. It's not as toothy as usual, but still full and warm. "I'll see you later, Squidward."

"Uh huh," he shoos SpongeBob towards the door, "now let me enjoy my afternoon in peace."

He pulls open the door and gasps with excitement, "Patrick!" ("SpongeBob!") And in unison, "jellyfishing!"

"Good riddance," Squidward mumbles. He watches them fall all over themselves rushing out across the sand to get to jellyfish fields. Finally. Now he can focus on salvaging the rest of his afternoon and whatever sunshine monstrosity his painting became when he wasn't paying attention. He mutters, "jellyfishing. Of all the…"

He closes the front door and opens his coat closet. There are two hooks he definitely didn't install screwed into the side wall. One is empty, and the other has what he can only assume is a jellyfishing net identical to the one SpongeBob grabbed just moments ago. There's also a raincoat, bright blue with yellow piping, and a pair of work boots.

"That can't be good."

\---

His evening? Ruined. His home? Invaded. Squidward spends the entire three hours SpongeBob is away doing a top to bottom inventory, and he doesn't like what he finds.

There's the first offence, the hooks, nets, and outdoor wear in his coat closet. He can forgive the coat, but drilling holes in his walls? When did SpongeBob even  _ do  _ that without Squidward finding out?

His bookshelf, meticulously sorted, has gained three new additions haphazardly added in the middle of his nonfiction.  _ Fiction _ , which is bad enough, but they're  _ illustrated.  _ And not the kind he keeps on the coffee table to enjoy with his tea.

Prepackaged snacks and unhealthy, salt laden ready meals have pushed aside his smoothie fruits in the freezer. So clearly SpongeBob  _ can't  _ make food from scratch if flipping isn't involved.

There are three of the near-identical outfits from SpongeBob's rotation hanging in the far back corner of Squidward's double wide closet, and his  _ unmentionables _ are  _ mingling _ with Squidward's in his dresser drawer.

And the worst, most damning sight of all, is a tiny bag of toiletries shoved in the bottom of his bathroom cabinet and a toothbrush in a cup on the counter.

His nightmare, realized. Every turn he makes he expects  _ Gary  _ to be there sliming up his furniture.

He gathers everything not frozen and sets it out carefully on his dining room table: all of SpongeBob's books and jellyfishing paraphernalia, his meticulously cleaned shoes (a pleasant surprise among unpleasantries) and extra clothes, the… the charming extra set of suspenders with the little snail pin - oh what is he doing? This is an  _ outrage _ . It certainly isn't charming, and it's definitely stopping today, or he isn't Squidward Q. Tentacles.

And he waits, drumming his fingers on the table until there's a polite tap ta-tap tap on his door. "It's open," he calls out, and SpongeBob peeks his head inside. "Care to explain?"

"Um, explain what?" He crosses the threshold, and the closer he gets to the table the more he hesitates until he's barely lifting his feet. He's gripping the head of his net with both hands, twisting them along the smooth bamboo as he nervously takes in the spread. "Um."

"Did you think I wouldn’t  _ notice _ ?”

“I um,” SpongeBob laughs nervously, “I thought you already had.”

Well, he’s not going to give SpongeBob the satisfaction of asking just how long these items have been here. “What exactly was your  _ goal _ by leaving all this in  _ my  _ house?”

“Well, it’s easier to get ready when I have my things -”

“Sponge _ Bob _ .  _ Please _ . Just what do you think you’re  _ doing _ ?”

He sets his net down on top of the other and sits down next to Squidward, gingerly, like he’s made of something fragile. He laces his fingers together and rests his elbows on his knees. “Please don’t get mad.” He glances up at Squidward, suddenly so shy. “I sort of lied to you.”

“You  _ lied  _ to me.”

“I am happy,” he whispers anxiously. Which Squidward is just… not really sure how to react to. “I have my dream job,” he says weakly. “It’s just that sometimes I get so  _ scared _ . I thought, um,” he digs his palm into his left eye, “I thought I was afraid of losing people, after Mount Humongous. I stayed with Sandy one night, and Patrick too, but it didn’t make me feel better.”

Squidward sighs, “what are you saying, SpongeBob?”

“I guess it’s more like I’m afraid of losing one person in particular.” He looks Squidward dead in the eye, and pins him right to his chair.

Squidward takes a breath. And a few more when SpongeBob doesn't stop staring. “What’s happening between us?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, smiling, “but I like it.”

“You  _ like  _ feeling anxious?”

“I like you,” he says, somehow just as cowardly as ever, but so much more brave than Squidward could ever hope to be.

\---

He still doesn't know what to call this.

Squidward's past dating experience never prepared him for SpongeBob's unique style. And SpongeBob himself never registered as someone that _ dates _ , period. He's friendly to a fault but there's a disconnect between him and anything less chaste than a sleepover. Even now there's still no evidence to suggest SpongeBob is even interested in something a little less platonic. He's touchy-feely with anyone who'll put up with the attention, friends included.

It's not really a relationship, not in the traditional way at least. He's in… a companionship with SpongeBob. Honestly, and only to himself, Squidward can admit that's probably all he can really handle.

And they still aren't spending most days together, but days like this, where Squidward is still afforded the peace and quiet he desires to read a script for a play trying to win his favor, are… alright. SpongeBob is doing… something. Squidward assumes it's meant to be traditional yoga, but the sheer bendability of his  _ companion _ means nothing is looking quite right.

"Do you want to explain what you're doing over there?"

SpongeBob dips back into a backbend that, frankly, makes Squidward uncomfortable from just looking. SpongeBob smiles and waves, and then takes a moment to return to a more normal body shape before addressing Squidward properly.

"I'm doing yoga." He takes a big drink from his water bottle and sighs happily. "Does this mean you're done reading?"

"I'm taking a  _ break  _ from reading." He'd love to be done with this script. It's dreck, pure and simple, but it was written by a resident, and if Squidward is going to foster the arts in this town he's going to have to temporarily lower his standards. Hopefully seeing this drivel live will inspire someone to do better. "I thought you did karate."

"I do," he nods, grinning. "And I was going to do it with Sandy, but she's still studying Mount Humongous." He fidgets with the front of his sweatshirt, flipping the little zipper pull with a finger. "So I thought I'd do my part."

"Your part?"

"My bendiness is the reason I could save the town," he explains, "so I gotta  _ keep  _ bending, or I don't know what'll happen next time."

Squidward doesn't know the right way to fix this. He doesn't know if there is a right way. The squirrel claims another eruption is a long way off,  _ literal decades _ , but SpongeBob can't seem to shake the lingering fear. It's very Squidward of him to dwell like this. Too bad Squidward never figured out how to stop or he'd have a plan.

SpongeBob shuffles over and sits on the couch beside Squidward; they're barely touching, just their shoulders and a tiny fraction of their knees. Squidward never learned how to initiate more.

"I trust Sandy," he says. "She's a whole lot smarter than me. And she isn't worried."

"So why are you?" It sounds a little callous the way he says it; he'd meant to open a door here, not slam SpongeBob into a wall. "I mean, you managed just fine with a half baked plan and half a prayer."

"Right," SpongeBob hazards. God, this is maddening. "So… it'll  _ definitely _ work the next time. If there's a next time."

"Seems like it."

It's a relief that even if he can't seem to initiate physical contact on his own SpongeBob will force it on him. He tugs Squidward's arm up and over his shoulders and swings his legs up to make a little tent over Squidward's lap. He's gotten marginally better about not crying about everything, not that Squidward would have blamed him. But just this one time.

"You act like you've never been in mortal peril before." So, not the  _ most _ encouraging pick me up, but SpongeBob still laughs. "I've  _ seen  _ you jellyfish."

"It's so  _ fun _ , though," he giggles. Something dangerously close to crying starts developing, but SpongeBob holds it at bay with a weak smile. "I'm just scared of letting everyone down. If it tries to erupt again they'd be counting on me." He leans against Squidward for about two seconds, and then straightens, determined little fists snapping down on his thighs. "And I  _ won't  _ let them down. I'm a manager now. People already count on me every day."

"Well, that was quick." Consoling people has never been his forte but with SpongeBob handling the brunt of the job he can commit his measly bit of effort without too much trouble. "I envy your optimism." But not whatever part of him just let that slip! "I don't think I've ever been that optimistic." Or whatever part of him thought  _ that  _ was a good follow up!

He gasps, "Squidward! Well I don't believe a word of that."

"Excuse me?" He raises a brow. "Which one of us is a brooding artist?" SpongeBob giggles, and his little leg tent drops so he's… pretty much sitting in Squidward's lap. Okay. That's… fine. He does drop his arm from SpongeBob's shoulders. It's a bit much. "We're different people, and for good reason. I don't think the world could handle two SpongeBobs."

"Well, then it can't handle two Squidwards either."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He drops his other hand onto SpongeBob's shins and… it's alright. He's still radiating heat from his workout, and he's getting awfully snuggly again. The happy kind and not the weepy kind. There's a subtle difference. (The difference is tears.)

And it's… still unnameable but Squidward can admit - quietly, and only to himself because he's not ready to give in this quickly but - he likes it.

\---

As much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, Squidward is going to need some outside resources. He's ill-equipped and unprepared, a novel concept. But he's determined to make this work, and work it shall! Just as soon as he gets what he needs.

With keys in hand and his wallet in his pocket, Squidward opens the door and nearly crashes into SpongeBob, who's still poised mid-knock, with a smile so wide it makes Squidward's cheeks ache.

"Hi, Squidward!" He waves. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Library," he says, and gives SpongeBob a gentle shove to the right so he can exit. "And, stop bouncing," he puts his hands on SpongeBob's shoulders, "I'll  _ tell _ you, alright? But keep this to yourself," he whispers, getting in close, and SpongeBob leans in with a little tilt to get his ear closer. "I need a play."

SpongeBob blinks, "a what?"

"A play!" he snaps, and then quiets himself. "Don't go spreading  _ rumors _ . The theatre can't think I'm some sort of  _ charlitan _ . They're asking for  _ my  _ recommendation, but I don't have a mountain of playbooks just lying around. I prefer to  _ watch _ plays, as the medium intended."

"Oooh," SpongeBob nods, "okay, so you need a  _ book _ . I have a ton of those."

"Of a  _ play _ , SpongeBob. It can't be just  _ any  _ book." He sighs. "And it can't be one of your comics either."

"No, I mean," he hums, "why don't I just show you, okay? It'll only take a second, and then you'll see."

"Fine," he can give up a few seconds of his time. It'll give him a chance to consider what type of play makes the best season opener. Tragedy? Contemporary?  _ Romance? _ SpongeBob’s opinion could prove useful if he had the attention span for the artform. He certainly is closer to the layman than Squidward.

SpongeBob takes him inside the pineapple and up to the second floor. He does a little flourish outside a heavy metal door, waggling his brows until Squidward gives up and opens the door for himself.

And he nearly passes out. Books. Hundreds of them, maybe nearly a  _ thousand _ . Wall to wall to  _ wall _ .

"I don't understand."

"This is my library," SpongeBob says, situated somewhere near Squidward's left hip. He wiggles his way in past Squidward, who's still gaping at the door, and holds his arms aloft. "What do you think?"

"Wh- _ why _ ?"

"Hm?" SpongeBob snorts, "uh, whaddya mean?"

"I didn't know you  _ read _ ," Squidward blurts out. SpongeBob laughs at him, truly laughs  _ at  _ him; he feels his cheeks heat up. "Stop it!"

"Aw, I'm sorry. It was a pretty good joke. I didn't think you were smart _ and  _ funny." ("Well that's… okay.") "Anyway, I didn't get a lot of these for myself. Whenever Grandma SquarePants goes on her shopping trips she sends me one, and she sure does love to shop. I think they remind her of me." He smirks, gesturing to himself with his thumb. Then he loses focus for a bit, and rushes across the room and points to a section just out of his reach. "Sometimes she sends me plays, too! I like the comedies."

"Color me shocked," Squidward mutters to himself. He joins SpongeBob and tugs a few volumes off the shelf. "Well, thank you. I should do some reading."

He's nearly to the door when SpongeBob adds, "you know you could read here if you want," and he turns back around. "There's only one chair, but the slide is pretty comfy if you add a couple pillows."

This is a conundrum. He truly doesn't not prefer to stay at home. Libraries are so peaceful in theory, but there's always a screaming child or a roughhousing pair of teens, or the worst thing of all: phone call makers. And SpongeBob isn't technically a screaming kid or a roughhousing teen, but he is a screaming, roughhousing adult.

But he's also very curious about this strange hobby of SpongeBob's he didn't know existed.

"I'll take the chair." And the little side table. He sets down his book stack and carries the whole thing to SpongeBob's hanging lounge chair. After he's climbed up and gotten settled he grabs the top play, which he already knows he's going to hate based on the colorful illustrations on the cover. It's probably SpongeBob's favorite.

He goes to start, and notices he has an audience. “You have to actually  _ let  _ me read, you know. This is for work, after all.”

“Scout's Honor,” SpongeBob holds up a proper salute. "We can read together!"

“Sure,” as long as  _ he  _ gets to do his reading. He cracks open the book, watching over the top cover as SpongeBob scrambles up the slide to Poseidon knows where. He’s two pages deep, and rapidly deeming himself correct about the quality of this book. Sorry Grandma SquarePants.

Right about page ten he truly gives up and sets the first play aside, and partway into the introduction of the second SpongeBob slides back down into the library with a stack of pillows trailing behind him and a glasses case in hand. He arranges them into a little nest at the bottom of the slide and floats around the room, dragging his fingers across the various spines until he grabs a book at random. He holds his prize aloft, shooting a finger gun at Squidward when he notices he’s the one being watched. Squidward snaps his attention back to the page, at least until SpongeBob is done settling into his nest.

And he catches sight of the dorkiest pair of square framed reading glasses. Oh no.

"Are you okay Squidward?"

"I-ah, what? I'm just…" he takes a deep breath because they're just  _ glasses _ and he is fine, "I didn't know you use readers."

"Oh yeah, for  _ ages _ ," he waves off the comment with a flick of his wrist. "Sometimes I think I should use them at work, but if I can't read the order I just make a Krabby Patty. I know if it's wrong you'll tell me."

"That is the most," he holds his breath, counts in his head, "well, I guess it's not like it's a huge menu."

"Exactly!" SpongeBob chuckles, and he finally cracks open his book.

True to his word, SpongeBob does actually read. He’s a very active reader, constantly gasping and twisting around as he makes his way through the first half of his book. By the time Squidward has narrowed his selection to three acceptable options SpongeBob has somehow ended up on his back going headfirst down the slide, with his feet propped up on the pillow pile.

Squidward scowls down at SpongeBob, but in his upside-down state he must be confusing it for a smile worth matching.

"Hey Squidward."

"I need to borrow these," he gestures to his armful, "to do an in depth analysis from an actor's perspective."

SpongeBob rolls onto his stomach, chin in his hands and feet swinging side to side. "Okay! You wouldn't want the actors to get stuck doing a bad play."

"More like I don't want these bad actors to ruin a good play." ("Oh.") "It's fine. I knew what I was getting into. As long as I find something without too much depth they should be able to throw together something passable."

"You're giving them an easy win," SpongeBob says. "That's good management. It improves morale."

"It's not… well yeah I guess so." He holds a book out and turns it around in his hands to get a good look at the cover. "One of these has to work. They're written for  _ children _ ."

"You can always borrow more," SpongeBob assures him. He hops up off the floor and skip-runs out into the hall, and then he's back before Squidward has time to question it. He slaps a key with a tiny jellyfishing net keychain onto the top of Squidward's stack. "It's my spare! Just," he steps back a bit, digging the toe of his boot into the carpet, "just in case you wanna come over and I'm not here."

His spare. His  _ spare _ ! Is there some deeper meaning? Is he really just being courteous? Maybe he hands these things out like candy and it's nothing special - "thanks, uh, your snail isn't going to expect anything from me if I come over, right?"

SpongeBob laughs so hard he doubles over, and the tension dissipates. And it's back twofold when he has to grab Squidward's arm for balance as he tries to regain his breath.

"I don't think it was  _ that  _ funny."

"But it  _ was _ !" He giggles, hand flexing around Squidward's forearm. SpongeBob rolls in his bottom lip to nibble at it, and then he lets go, still staring at the place his hand once occupied. "Did you have plans for dinner?"

"Uh, I, uh," he lifted the books up higher, "I really need to read these. It could take a couple hours."

"Oh," SpongeBob deflates, "okay. Right. The theatre is counting on you."

"Um," he coughs, "Sponge, it'll take  _ a couple  _ hours."

"I heard - oh!" He smiles. The glasses really are just… so dorky, especially with that way he shoves his tongue against his front teeth. Dorky. "Well, I don't wanna keep you from your  _ couple of hours, _ " he elbows Squidward's side. And then he whispers, "see you later."

\---

Later, two hours on the dot, (and at Squidward's insistence) SpongeBob shows up with a bag full of ingredients for a salad. It's about time he learned food comes in colors other than brown and slightly lighter brown.

And technically Squidward still needs to read one more play, but he's trying this thing where he isn't a giant disappointment to the people around him, including himself. He can sneak in a few pages before dinner while SpongeBob readies their food, and then after they eat and SpongeBob inevitably passes out once his body learns what the heck a vegetable is and what it's supposed to do with them.

“There’s really  _ no  _ bun,” SpongeBob says incredulously. The very tip of his tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth. This doesn’t feel like a situation that warrants this much critical thinking.

“There’s  _ croutons _ ,” Squidward snits. “You don’t need bread for  _ every  _ meal, you know.”

“They’re so leafy,” SpongeBob marvels. There’s some things about SpongeBob that make Squidward wonder about his childhood, and also several of his adult years. He slides one bowl in front of Squidward and claims the closest chair to his left. “You don’t have to worry about me, Squidward. I eat lettuce all the time!”

“Let me guess,” Squidward sighs, and in unison, (SpongeBob with enthusiasm and Squidward with a deep weariness) “on Krabby Patties.”

“Yeah!”

“That  _ doesn’t  _ count,” Squidward stabs into his salad and takes a bite. Ah, no dressing. Well, maybe it’s for the best for  _ someone’s  _ sake.

"There's nothing wrong with Krabby Patties," SpongeBob insists. "Unless you count delicious, comforting, wonderful -"

"Heart attack causing, greasy," Squidward counters.

"They don't  _ cause  _ the heart attacks, Squidward."

"Fine, fine, they just contribute to their inevitability." He stirs a bit of the fixings into the bulk of his salad before taking another bite. "I don't know how you can still eat them when you have to make them every day."

"I put love in  _ every _ patty," he coos. His socked foot finds Squidward's under the table and gives it a playful little tap before retreating. "Do you like bean bag chairs?"

"What."

"I've been thinking about getting another chair for the library," SpongeBob explains. His foot taps Squidward's again, but this time it sticks around for the aftermath. "See, one chair is fine for just me but there's plenty of room for two."

"And your gut instinct is a bean bag chair?"

"One of the nice ones," he says. Tap ta-tap tap, his foot just won't  _ quit _ . "They can fit two people! Or if that's no good," oh, so he  _ is  _ watching Squidward's horrified reaction, "then there's probably room for a couch."

"Your setup seemed fine," Squidward tugs his foot back, but SpongeBob stretches to reach; he's getting a little  _ needy _ today. "I don't think our reading  _ styles _ would do well in close proximity."

"Maybe you're right," he hums. "I just want you to be comfortable there too! Like, maybe we could try pushing the ol' pineapple closer so you don't have a long walk! Or, oh! Oh! Oh! We could build a tunnel connecting our houses! Then you can come over even when the weather gets bad!"

Squidward casts a suspicious eye towards the salads, and to SpongeBob’s a-couple-shades-shy-of-manic grin. He doesn’t know what this  _ is _ , any of it, except that letting it fester can’t be good for him, his house, and whatever this thing they have is and plans to be. “That might be the most ridiculous idea I’ve heard in a long, long time.”

And just like that Squidward’s goal of not being a disappointment evaporates. “Oh…”

“Hey, I only meant - Don’t look at me like that! We’re not going to turn our houses into one unsellable abomination over a slight  _ inconvenience _ .” It occurs to him, far too late to take anything back, that this wasn’t about quick access to SpongeBob's  _ library _ . “Sponge,” he reaches a foot out and taps SpongeBob’s, but SpongeBob tucks his out of reach. “C’mon, Sponge, you can’t honestly think - hey now,  _ stop  _ that,” he can’t  _ stand  _ SpongeBob’s sniffling. “We’re already next door neighbors! You're over here almost daily! You can't think having some DIY nightmare  _ skywalk  _ between our houses would change much.”

Well, he’s really done it this time. For a guy that cries at the drop of a hat, Squidward doesn’t think he’s seen him cry like this. This little, quiet,  _ dejected  _ sniveling over a proposal Squidward didn't technically reject because SpongeBob didn't technically ask.

He turns away from the waterworks and spots the pile of three plays at the other end of his table, and nestled between two of them is the spare key.

“Just stay here,” he orders SpongeBob. He feels the urge to touch SpongeBob’s back as he walks by, but he can't bring himself to move closer. He can't stand the thought of SpongeBob flinching.

He yanks open the miscellaneous drawer in his kitchen and starts digging around in some of the far back clutter. Old, half dried out pens, a few rubber bands, a stack of coupons that he really needs to throw out - aha! He retrieves his old spare key and wipes the little bit of tarnish off the face.

SpongeBob is entering somewhere truly miserable by the time Squidward returns to the dining room. He sets the key on the table and slides it over, tapping his finger against SpongeBob’s forearm when he doesn’t acknowledge him.

SpongeBob sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “What’s that?”

“My spare,” Squidward admits. SpongeBob snaps his head up and dear Neptune he is a mess. “This is,” Squidward sighs, and pinches his brow. “I’m… sorry, but! But, see, this is,” he groans, and slides the key just a bit closer, “please understand that this is a  _ gigantic _ step for me.”

SpongeBob giggles, jumps out of the chair, and launches himself at Squidward, rubbing his snot-and-tears face all over his shirt. Disgusting, and yet, when he crushes Squidward into a hug Squidward feels obligated to return the gesture.

\---

SpongeBob kissed him.

Mornings go one of two ways dependent on the absence or presence of SpongeBob. Mornings alone he gets ready, enjoys some tea and reading, and if SpongeBob is there he still does that but there's usually a running commentary going on in the background. Either way, there's tea and a book, and a light breakfast, and that's  _ it _ . He likes his mornings simple.

So when he wakes up and SpongeBob is wide awake, and somehow hasn't grown bored of just lying there  _ staring _ , and then he rolls closer long enough to  _ kiss his cheek _ , and then he just  _ leaves _ , like he hasn't just turned Squidward into a statue.

So he's still in bed, and he doesn't have an exit strategy.

-

"Oh Squidward," SpongeBob sing-songs, "I made pancakes!"

Sometime in the last hour he retreated deep within himself to avoid facing his problems. Better to just feign catatonia than acknowledge SpongeBob fluttering around the room, hair a mess and still in pajamas because he wanted to make Squidward some food before doing anything else. He clambers up into bed with a tray of food and sets it between them.

Squidward's lack of movement doesn't deter him in the slightest. He drapes one of his cloth napkins over Squidward's chest and adds a plate piled high with pancakes and a scoop of fruit compote.

"You have no idea what you've done," Squidward says gravely.

"Hm?" He hums around a forkful of food. He finishes the bite, dear Neptune he actually finishes the bite, before speaking, "what did I do?"

He can't acknowledge it, because if he does then he's admitting that it affected him and admitting that might be the thing to scare away SpongeBob for good and he'd just rather stay in this strange ambiguous place if it means it won't ever stop.

"Oh, am I supposed to guess?"

No thank you absolutely  _ not _ . "Sure."

"Well," SpongeBob taps his chin with his syrup covered fork. There's little strings of sugary sap trailing between them with every tap. "It's our day off," he muses, "and I didn't  _ cancel  _ the day off so it's not that."

"Of course, wait does this mean you've been  _ considering  _ that?"

"No plays this week," he sighs, "and I didn't forget your birthday or anything, wait, I didn't, did I?" He turns to Squidward, briefly panicking. "No, of course not," he laughs. "You'd be complaining if I did."

"Which I would be entitled to," Squidward adds. Not that he usually cares about his birthday, but if SpongeBob is going to care for him then he needs to do his part to maintain these loftier expectations. He sighs heavily. “Look, you did  _ something _ , okay? I think that should be enough.”

“Oh! You didn’t say it was something  _ bad _ ,” SpongeBob coos. “So maybe it was something good?”

No, well, sure he could maybe call it that but never  _ out loud _ . He watches with dismay as SpongeBob removes the plate and napkin, and then the tray, the one barrier protecting him, goes away. And he can’t look away from the ceiling, even when SpongeBob’s draped over him like  _ he’s  _ a cloth napkin and-

“Hi Squidward,” he whispers, grinning. “Did I scare you?”

“Do I look scared?” Oh, he doesn’t really want an answer to that. SpongeBob just laughs. "I was," he shrugs, "surprised, is all. Mildly. Hardly noticeable."

"You've been hiding in here all morning," SpongeBob teases.

"I just didn't expect you to  _ do  _ that sort of thing." SpongeBob blinks. "That… came out different than I intended."

" _ Oh _ , well, you're sort of right," he explains. He also keeps dragging a finger across Squidward's chest. "I don't really feel the  _ need  _ to, I guess. But if you like," he waggles his brows, "you could maybe explain what these," he points to them, "are supposed to imply."

"I don't really know what's going on here."

"I'm a sponge," he says. "It's what we do, or, what we don't do. It's, well-"

"I get it," Squidward puts a hand over SpongeBob's mouth to buy himself a little time to think. "I get the jist," he amends, because SpongeBob doesn't seem to have all the information himself. "But you're," he coughs, "not against… it."

"In theory. In practice," he shrugs. "Guess  _ you'll  _ have to be the manager of this one."

Well, that'll never happen in a million years.

\---

He's a manager.

He's  _ managed  _ to fulfill his lifelong dream. His name in lights… on a small placard near the ticket counter indicating his new position as artistic director of Bikini Bottom's most illustrious (and only) theatre company. It's not settling, it's a temporary acceptance of a position adjacent to his true goal of… alright he's settled. He's accepted that maybe being the man behind the stage is the closest he's going to get, but he's shaping young actors to meet his impossibly high standards. With him  _ acting _ as the driving force this town may just have an adequate art scene yet.

He's in his brand new (musty, with some heinous mustard carpet) office, avoiding work because  _ he's  _ the one that gets to decide that. The scripts are all but finalized, and local actors are lining up to show the director their stuff (well, they've signed up at the front desk); he's earned himself a slack day.

(And he's distracted, terribly, horribly distracted. SpongeBob wasn't exaggerating, and is, to Squidward's dismay, as clueless as he seems. But he certainly is  _ eager _ . Eager to learn, and eager to please. Squidward's going to have an aneurism within the week.)

Technically, he doesn't need to be here. Today, and today only, he's opened submissions for local scripts, knowing full well the town did not have enough notice to scrap together anything even remotely passable.

The one thing he didn't prepare for, the person he's made a conscious effort to  _ not  _ think about more than once a month, saunters into the front office and starts binging the little bell. Squilliam doesn't have his trademark entourage, but his presence carries the same suffocating pressure to just  _ try  _ to be even one eighth as successful as him.

"Oho, aren't you a sight," Squilliam smirks. Squidward straightens up on his stool and feigns some sort of pride in himself. "Moving up in the world of  _ cashiers _ aren't we?"

"Squilliam."

"Oh, Squidward, no need to be  _ curt _ . We're old friends. I kid!"

Old friends?  _ Old friends?  _ Squilliam, the unattainable, his once crush and forever crushingly irritating arch nemesis. (And maybe just a bit of a crush still. The same kind you feel for someone you see in a painting.)

"What brings you here," he deadpans, dreading the forthcoming answer.

"I got wind of your little script call,"  _ barnacles _ , "and thought I'd throw my hat in the ring. A personal piece I've been toying with for a few weeks, just something to use as a warm-up. Wouldn't want to waste anything  _ too _ groundbreaking on the uh,  _ local talent _ ."

"Sure, uh huh," Squidward drags the play schedule out of the top drawer and uncaps his pen. ("I'm sure the artistic director is just  _ dying  _ to get ahold of a genuine Squilliam original work.")

Oh is he ever. Oh, oh wait. Squidward blinks down at his rough draft for the schedule as something wonderful dawns on him. "Things are looking fairly tight," he says sympathetically. "I suppose we can squeeze you in somewhere."

"The director would be an  _ idiot  _ to ignore this gift."

He hems and haws. "I suppose I can fit you in on a Tuesday matinee."

Squilliam, for the first time ever (Squidward even records the date), is speechless. "What! A  _ Tuesday _ !"

"I'm  _ sorry _ ," he says, words just dripping with sarcasm, "but I'm afraid we've filled up all the prime times."

"This is unacceptable! I hope you're prepared to go back to the Krispy Krab-" ("Krusty Krab.") "- for  _ sleeping  _ on this opportunity."

"I'll be sure to make a note for  _ myself _ ," he reveals, using the pen to indicate his name on some business cards.

Squilliam snatches the stack, sputtering. "You, but you-!" He throws them back onto the counter, sending them scattering across the surface. "You'll regret this, Tentacles!"

"I look forward to it!" He calls, cackling at Squilliam's back as he stomps away. "Oh, that is going to come back to haunt me."

But, and it's the strangest thing, he doesn't  _ care _ .

\---

Squidward walks home in the strangest mood. It isn't until he sees SpongeBob barrelling towards him from the opposite direction that he can finally place it. He's  _ content _ .

Content with his job, his life, with  _ SpongeBob _ . It's messy and ugly and wonderful. And sometimes it isn't wonderful, but maybe that's not always ruinous. Maybe it's just a crappy day.

"Hello Squidward!" He comes to a stop, hands to his knees as he catches his breath. "Hi."

"Were the new hires terrible?"

"No," he laughs. "They did great! A fantastic group of young minds ready to make it on their own." He stands up properly, thumbs under his suspenders as he rocks happily. "How was your day? Amazing? Wonderful?"

"I didn't hate it," he shrugs.

"That's great!"

“You understand this means I’m resigning for real this time.”

“I know,” SpongeBob droops for about a half second before he snaps to attention and gives Squidward a salute. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Squidward.”

“Some parts were okay.”

“Okay he says,” SpongeBob waves him off. “Was your humble beginning everything you hoped it would be?”

"Not exactly,” he sighs. “I'm beginning to accept the ridiculous concept that I might not be," he takes a deep breath, "talented."

"Oh," SpongeBob stops rocking, "well." He grabs his chin, thinking as hard as he possibly can, and all for Squidward's sake. What a concept. "You know," he smiles, "I think you have a  _ talent  _ for finding talent."

"... Thanks."

"The playhouse wouldn't be where it is without you." ("The season hasn't even started yet.") "And when it does, it's gonna be the greatest season ever."

Or it'll crash and burn, courtesy of one Fancyson. "We'll see."

"We will," SpongeBob nods. He gets up on his very tip toes and kisses Squidward, giggling like  _ he's  _ the one that just got kissed. "Hey Squidward," he whispers, "we're both managers."

"Yeah," he makes SpongeBob do an about-face and loops an arm around his shoulders, "I suppose we are. Now can we do something relaxing before I start regretting my life choices?"

"Jellyfishing? Or I could bring over my box set of Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy!"

"I have something new in mind. What do you know about gardening?"


End file.
